


Blue Lamp

by Katzedecimal



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Gen, Guilt, Memories, Parent Death, Triggers, ablism, allism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a sunny day, with puffy clouds in the sky, a man who might have become the greatest detective of all time committed suicide in a leap from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.  He died on impact.  He was survived by his older brother, who was murdered by an assassin shortly after.  His best friend and flatmate died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound nine months later.  The body of forensic medical research compiled by the two men was destroyed by their distraught but well-meaning landlady; it was believed that their contribution to the fields of forensic medicine and criminal investigation could have been enormous, based on the few samples that were recovered.  Historians would later point to the death of Sherlock Holmes as the first in a series of events that would contribute to the severity of the British situation after the Great Crash, through the rest of the 21st Century CE.  "If only that could have been prevented somehow," they said, "Things might have been very different."</p><p>So.... What if it <i>could</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darksakura](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=darksakura).



> This isn't the sort of thing I'd normally write up, but a friend expressed a desire to see the concepts brought together, so I'm writing it for her. I don't expect anybody else to like it, but if anyone else does, hey great, if not, it's no skin off my back.

"Is that..... how it ends?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"But... You said he becomes the greatest detective who ever lived?"

"Yes, I did say that, didn't I? Bit of a conundrum there. It seems there are two realities, all tangled up together."

"Huh? How does that work? Why?"

"Well, you've heard me talk about fixed points in Time before, right? This is what can happen when an event is _not_ a fixed point in Time."

"Not, so.... If it's not a fixed point, you mean, it can be changed? So, the realities are.. descending from one if he dies and one if he lives?"

"Oh I just love your clever little brain. Yes, you've got it exactly. But, Lani, there's a problem."

"Well? Just spit it out!"

"The death of Sherlock Holmes is not a fixed point in Time, but it's deeply embedded among a number of events that _are._ "

"Meaning?"

"One of them is the death of Jim Moriarty. Now look at how closely that fixed point in Time takes place next to the death of Sherlock Holmes."

"......oh boy."

"And there are a **lot** of fixed-point events surrounding that one non-fixed point."

"So finding a way to change it will be like finding a needle in a haystack."

"Exactly."

"I'll need help."

"You want to try it then?"

"I just saw what else descended from Sherlock Holmes's death. If there's a chance to prevent all of that from happening, then yes."

"I must warn you that there's a chance that it could... go worse."

"......How big?"

"It's **Time,** Lani. It's all... wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey. And these events, they're a veritable timey-wimey maelstrom."

"........"

"........"

"So, like the Corryvreckan, then? Or more like the Saltstraumen, this maelstrom?"

"Hmm. More like the Moskenstraum, or possibly the Old Sow. Are you ready?"

"We're going?"

"Laniiii, after all our time together, I thought you knew me by now? -- We never weren't!"


	2. Anniversary, pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearing the anniversary of an important event in his life, Mycroft remembers. But while his memory has always been crystal, perfect, total recall... nevertheless it is slightly skewed.

It was a dark and rainy night. He stepped out of the car, bid good night to his driver and his personal assistant, and walked the short walk to unlock the door of the big old house, as he had done every night since inheriting it. His domestic staff had gone home and the house stood empty and dark. Save for the blue Tiffany lamp that stood in the window, casting its indigo rays into the grey darkness beyond. Just as it had done since the grey day he'd gotten his brother's frantic phone call. Just as it had done since the day he'd inherited the house. 

Some days, he could almost understand why. It was a house full of memories and they weren't all good ones. Some days, he could just about hear the echoes of the voices - Daddy, so stern and firm and proper, unrelenting and unforgiving. Little Sherlock, screaming and slamming his head against the wall again and again and again. His own screams, as the nanny and governess held his hands down chanting, _"Quiet hands, Mycroft! Quiet hands!"_ In time, they had stopped screaming, and grew to be as dark and silent and obstinate as _her._ And he wondered if she had screamed, if she'd screamed for the same reasons, and stopped for the same reasons. Then the silence of the house would press in on him again. 

There was only the ticking of the clock.

Yes, some days he could almost understand. But he had never - quite, fully - accepted. So he scanned the CCTV images and sometimes he would see a face that shared similar geometry. He would run it through imaging software (technology is such a marvel) but he never found a match. It was foolish and he knew it. But then he would learn that NSY had conducted another unofficial "training exercise" - perhaps a dive team, perhaps a K9 unit - and he was comforted that he wasn't alone in his foolishness. All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring wasn't an advantage but he just couldn't _stop._

The anniversary was this week. _No wonder I'm so maudlin,_ he thought. He shucked off his rain gear and crossed to the cabinet. 

It was a foolishness borne of foolish hope, of course -- they had never found any trace. So he searched among the living and his brother searched among the dead. For fifteen years, they had searched. They knew, deep in their hearts, that there was nothing left to search for, yet they just couldn't _stop._

And the dark little voice in the pit of his soul whispered, _Maybe we keep searching because deep down, we understand why we weren't reason enough._ He threw back a shot of whiskey, silencing the little voice. 

But not for long. Then the voices crowded in again. _"Sherlock, stop it, don't do that, you'll be punished!" "Sherlock, you mustn't say things like that, they'll punish you." "Sherlock, don't, you have to or they'll punish you, they'll hurt you if you don't."_

Then another memory skated across, scattering the others. _"No! I'm not letting those people near my children again! Do you not understand what they were **doing**? They've already destroyed Mycroft, I'm not seeing that happen to Sherlock as well!" "It was for his own good, Atalanta." "You did **not** just say that. I did **not** just hear you say that about a **child!** " He had sat at the top of the stairs, listening to it all. Then he realised what he was doing and stopped, swamped by the dread and fear that came whenever he was caught doing that. He heard footsteps behind him and jumped again - dread, fear, guilt - then relief when a little voice whispered, "What are you doing, Mycroft?" "Mummy and Daddy are arguing again. Go back to bed, Sherlock." "Are they arguing about me?" "No," he had answered, feeling a sense of dismay, "They're arguing about me."_


	3. Anniversary, pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why is this Sherlock Holmes so important? Is he a celebrity or something?" 
> 
> "I suppose that's one way of putting it."

"Lani?"

"Yes love?" She poked her head out from the panels she was working under. Tyree was standing there, looking down at her and twisting her fingers anxiously. 

"What are you doing?"

"Figured I'd fix that buzz once and for all," Lani sighed. She heaved herself out onto the floor, legs dangling into the maintenance pit and swinging idly, then patted the floor, "Or at least as much as anything can be fixed once and for all, on this old girl." She grinned up at her friend. She and Tyree had been travelling for nearly the same length of time, Tyree having joined the crew a few months - subjectively - after Lani. 

"I hear we're going to your time period?" Tyree said, crouching down beside her. They were from the same region of the same nation, but from different time periods, Lani having been born a full two hundred years before Tyree. 

"Yes," Lani nodded, "You wouldn't like it, I imagine. They still divide people into 'normal' and 'not normal' and it's still all full of isms."

Tyree nodded, "Well, it **was** two hundred years ago."

"And two hundred years before my time, it was even worse, so there you go, we're sort of half-way there." 

They grinned at each other, then Tyree's face grew serious, "Why do you have to go back? You didn't like it."

Lani pushed her hands through her light ginger hair and blew out a sigh. "No. I didn't," she said finally. "It wasn't healthy for me. Being here has been good for me. You and he, you've been good for me, and this precious old thing," she patted the floor again and looked around the library fondly. "When I look back on the state I was in when I stumbled into this beautiful old thing, I can hardly recognise myself."

"It's hard to believe you were ever that depressed," Tyree said, "You've been so vibrant and alive, the whole time I've known you. Always inventing, always thinking and imagining, always building something or fixing something. It's hard to imagine you as being any different."

"Yes, well.... You know what happened."

"I don't understand how people could treat you like that."

Lani shrugged, "I wasn't 'normal.'"

Tyree gazed at her friend, at the sadness in her eyes. She had always felt so spell-bound by Lani's frosty blue eyes. An inquisitive gaze above sharp cheekbones under a rippling fall of light ginger hair, all of it covering a crackling intelligence that Tyree had admired from the first. "It's so hard to understand. It's different, in my time. We just don't think like that."

"I know," Lani smiled, "I liked it there. Well... apart from the Krotons."

"Hey, we got rid of those!" 

They laughed and Lani slapped her friend's thigh, "Come on, you - Let's go to the wardrobe. Help me choose some clothes. The year we're going to is quite a bit after I left, apparently fashion's changed quite a bit."

"Beats me how you don't get lost in this maze," Tyree complained with good humour, as they walked down the twisting corridors. 

"Easy - she tells me where to go. I keep telling you to listen."

"Yes, but you never say to what."

"To the hum!"

"Not helpful, Lani!"

"Well I don't know how else to put it," Lani said as they reached the wardrobe.

It was enormous - two storeys with a spiral staircase. They rummaged through the racks for a while, pulling out garment after garment. Finally Tyree threw them down and said, "Why is this Sherlock Holmes so important? Is he a celebrity or something?"

Lani paused and snerked with an odd expression, "I suppose that's one way of putting it." She pulled some clothes out and rolled them up, stuffing them into her pack. The silence drew out. 

Tyree shook her head as it became apparent that Lani would volunteer nothing else. "Do you suppose you'll still have any family?"

"Hm? Oh yes, some."

"Do you think you'll see any of them?"

"Hope to. Gonna have to."

"Oh!" Tyree smiled, "So, you think they'll be glad to see you, then?"

"Ahh... no. No, I really don't think they will."

"Why not?"

Lani glanced up, "Because apparently I've been dead for fifteen years."


	4. Anniversary, pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft takes a guilt trip.

Thunder rumbled; the rain was turning to storm. He poured himself a glass of port and went to the kitchen to find the tray of fruits and cheeses that Cook always left for him. 

_"It wasn't me who was upsetting her, Mycroft!"_ No, it wasn't, was it. She was always trying to protect Sherlock; she had always been distant from himself. _You're being silly,_ he chided himself, pulling the tray out of the refrigerator, _You know she had been dissuaded from interacting with you. You know she had been told that it was better for you. You know she tried to make up for it once she realised they were lying to her. She spent as much time as she could, with both of you, after that she learned that. You're acting like a silly child._

Nevertheless...

The thunder rolled again. He sipped his port and took a nibble of the cheese. _You're acting like this because you're feeling guilty. Because you didn't think it through,_ the dark little voice whispered, _That's twice now._ He winced. _First you cocked it up about the Adler woman,_ the little voice continued, _You completely failed to consider her intelligence. You dismissed her effect on him, and you failed utterly to consider **his** effect on **her.** She thought him a catnip toy sent for her to play with. You failed to factor her in **at all.** What would Mummy say?_ Ouch. Ouch ouch ouch. He could guess all too well what Mummy would say - she'd call him a sexist idiot, is what she would say. Ouch ouch ouch. 

Daddy was a sexist arse. He _hated_ being compared to Daddy.  He hated it even more when he deserved it. He took a sip of the port, hoping that the little voice of his conscience would go away. It always came out so strongly around the anniversary. 

_Soon be two anniversaries._ Oh bugger. _You should have realised what he was up to. You should have known those weren't innocent questions. You should have known that wasn't simply an idle curiosity about Sherlock._ The thunder kept rolling, one wave rolling into another.

Yes, he really should have known better. He'd been so intent on the lure of cracking Moriarty that he'd completely overlooked anything else. And the worst part was, he had a feeling he'd been played, that the whole thing was a massive, complex and sophisticated hoax designed... designed to lure him into giving small bits of personal information about his brother, seemingly innocuous, to the person who'd have both a reason to use it against him and the means to do so and I fell for it I completely fell right into it...

 ** _YOU ARE AN IDIOT!_** the dark voice roared, _You are **supposed** to be the smartest man in the Empire! That's why you have your position, that's why they gave it to you! You're supposed to **think** of things like this, you're supposed to **think it through!**_ He picked up the plate to carry it out to the sitting room, while the voice of his conscience screamed at him. _You didn't think it through. What did she always tell you? - and you didn't do it! You didn't think it through!_ Lighting flashed rhythmically and the thunder rolled on. _Now you're going to lose him, too._ Too rhythmically. Lightning didn't flash that regularly and the thunder sounded more like a herd of asthmatic elephants. An almighty wind had kicked up and was making a mess of the sitting room and he was **certain** he hadn't opened any windows.

_What the hell is **that?**_

There was an old-fashioned police public call box in the middle of the sitting room. It was semi-transparent and didn't seem to be quite _there._ The light on top of it was flashing as it faded into view and it was definitely what was making that ungodly noise. He set plate and port down on the side table as, with a series of solid **_WHAMs_** , the thing solidified completely and fell silent.

He stepped around it, examining it from all available sides. It was an old-fashioned police public call box. It said so, quite clearly labelled as such. It was what people used before they had mobile phones. It was blue. It had an old-fashioned telephone, complete with wires and rotary dial. It was an old-fashioned police public call box and it had just... _appeared_ , in his sitting room, seemingly out of thin air. He wondered if Sherlock would find _this_ interesting. _The Case of the Appearing Police Call Box_ , quite a contrast to the numerous _Cases of the Disappearing Whatsits_ with which he was usually plagued. He took out his phone and was about to text his brother when the door of the call box opened (the wrong way), giving him a brief glimpse into the interior which was...  certainly not the small dark cupboard he had been expecting. He had barely processed the glimpse when a voice called out, _" **Mycroft Holmes!** I want a word with you!"_

The phone clattered to the floor and he reeled back into the side table, sending the cheese plate and port spilling. _He knew that voice!_ That voice cut straight across the years and pierced him right in the inner child. He felt the blood drain from his face and extremities and felt his heart stuttering in his chest, trying to find its beat (for a moment, he wondered if he might actually have a heart attack.) His breath choked and he felt his jaw working soundlessly as his brain tried to process the sound of the voice and the sight of the figure stepping out of the box and closing the door, to stomp up to him and glare up at him with those eyes **those eyes**...! 

She should have been in her seventies. The rippling hair should have been grey, not still the same shade as his own. The cheeks should have been creased and wrinkled over the sharp cheekbones and the eyes, those eyes, they should have been older, rheumy perhaps, but those eyes were just **just** as he remembered them. She shouldn't look like nary a day had passed since she disappeared fifteen years ago.

" _ **Mummy?!?**_ "


	5. How I Spent My Summer Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lani comes clean about where she's been the last fifteen years and Mycroft learns he's out twenty quid.

_"Why can't we go with her?"_

_"Because this is what she has to do."_

_"So that's it, you're just.. letting her go?"_

_"I have to, Tyree. I said that, while itself a mutable event, the death of Sherlock Holmes was deeply wrapped up in a number of fixed events. One of them is Lani leaving the TARDIS."_

* * * *

Sometimes customs became cliches. Sometimes customs were done simply for the sake of doing them. Sometimes customs served a purpose. One British custom served as a rock to fall back onto. At any time, during any storm, whether relaxed or in crisis, whether meeting a homeless waif or the Queen herself - no matter what the situation, this one custom meant that a British person would always know what to do.

Which is why Lani was now esconced in the sitting room, balancing a porcelain cup of autumn harvest Darjeeling from the Margaret's Hope estate. It wasn't Mycroft's fault, really. He was running entirely on automatic, because his brain was overrun by the dark voice screaming _Oh dear God, Mycroft, you've only gone and cocked it up so badly, your mother had to come back from the dead!_

"Welcome home, Mummy," he heard his mouth say. It was using his plummy voice too, all calm and polished and professional. Amazing what his conditioning could withstand. "You're looking well." _oh God...!_

Lani stared at him for a few moments then abruptly laughed. "Nobody could ever accuse you of not being British, Number One." 

Mycroft felt his heart leap into his throat at the use of his childhood nickname. He felt his mouth stretch into its thin smile and heard his voice ask, "Where have you been?"

Lani jerked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the police box. "Sigurd was dead and you boys were off on your toddle, I figured I was owed a holiday."

"In a police call box?" 

The light on the box began to flash and it groaned and thumped as it started to fade, making another mess as air rushed to fill the space it was vacating. Lani watched with sad resignation as the thing disappeared and the little twingie sounds finally faded to silence. She sighed then looked back at Mycroft, "Doesn't do what it says on the box."

"I...... suppose not..."

Her lip twisted sourly, "Granted, we intended to drop me back after fifteen **minutes** , not fifteen **years** , but you know, circumstances." 

"Then... you're here because of me?" _Oh **God** , I made her cut short her **holiday!**...wait, what?_

"You tell me," Lani put down her cup and leaned back, steepling her fingers. Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered whether gestures were inherited. "What's happened about this Moriarty, Number One?"

Mycroft felt a wave of dismay - she **was** here because of him. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I.... I didn't think it through."

"Tell me."

"I occupy... a rather unique position with the British government, I am an... undeclared member on the JIC. I liaise between all intelligence and security departments overseen by the JIC, as well as similar entities in the international community. All information is routed through me."

He had a moment's satisfaction as Lani looked grudgingly impressed. "An ideal position for someone with your perfect memory," she commented, "Making you effectively omniscient. Moreover, your ability to discern patterns would allow you to see potential flaws in plans that cross before you, and to sort them out with your superior reasoning." Mycroft smiled, feeling a childish but nevertheless warm glow at the praise. "Well, now I wonder even more, how you failed to spot Moriarty's plan."

The warm glow snuffed out abruptly, along with the smile. "I don't know," he said sadly, "I've been asking myself that. I don't know how I missed that it was all a hoax. I should have realised it's impossible, there cannot be a single code that can defeat any security system, but the way things are going technologically..."

"Not yet but ask again in seven years," Lani agreed. Mycroft's eyebrow shot up. "I did do my research," she said, "I'm aware of the current technological state of the Western world and where it's going. He found the perfect bait for you and now we have a lovely mess of fish guts."

"...i'm sorry..."

"Yes I'm sure, doesn't really move us forward much though, does it." Lani raked her hands through her hair and looked at him, "I came here for a reason, Number One. I need your help."

"To fix this?"

Silence stretched out. Lani pressed her lips in a thin line and chewed them. Finally she blew out a gusty sigh. "It can't be fixed, Mycroft. There's no way of stopping this. Moriarty is going to force Sherlock to commit suicide. Sherlock is going to die."

Mycroft looked away. "...All people die," he whispered his mantra, "Even little brothers."

"They don't all take the rest of Britain with them."

"What?" 

"Sherlock's death is the first domino in a series of deaths and events that will eventually contribute to the fall of England."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Moriarty's opened the doors to a vast number of countries, industries and conglomerates, Mycroft, and he's going to kill the only person who can find them all and shut them all down. The European Union is already in crisis and it's threatening to bring the rest of the developed world down with it. Care to guess what'll happen if those doors stay open?"

Mycroft shivered. "You sound so sure..."

Lani gestured at her face then waved a hand at where the blue box had been, "You did see how I arrived here, yes? Did you see inside? We left the door open..."

Mycroft nodded weakly, "It looked.. bigger on the inside. But that's impossible!"

"I know!" Lani's eyes lit with the excited fire that he usually only saw in Sherlock's face, whenever he was handed a serial killer. "Tesseract technology! Doesn't do what it says on the box, that's only a disguise! - It's a time machine! See, for me, it's only been three, not quite three and a half years."

"We found the house empty but with no signs of distress," Mycroft said, "Your workshop was set up, your computer was still on, your book was set down on its spine, your tea was still steeping. It looked like you had just.. left."

"I heard the sound," Lani explained, "Got curious, of course, a sound like that. So, I went looking for the source, eventually found it out in the woods. There it was, a police box, out in the middle of nowhere, only the windows were wrong. Actually quite a lot of the proportions were wrong. And then I tried the door. Didn't care about the windows after that."

"No, I suppose not," Mycroft chuckled, "That must have been incredible."

"Oh it was!" And her eyes were lit with that strange fire. "There was no one in it, or so I thought, so I just looked around at it but didn't touch anything. But then I realised it sounded a little.. off, you know? Something wasn't in the right frequency. So I went looking for it, ended up taking up the floor panels and crawling underneath looking for the source of the inconsistency. And I found it and figured out that I could fix it, and I was doing that and then I realised that the owner had come back and was standing right above me."

"Oh NO, Mummy!"

"Awk-warrrd!"

"Were they terribly angry?"

"No, not at all, actually he was quite amused. Like when you come in to see your clever little monkey has taken apart his Speak-and-Spell." Mycroft blushed and grinned, remembering. "But even more amused when you see that the clever little monkey is putting it back together _correctly._ " Lani steepled her fingers with a little grin, "You see, I wasn't supposed to be able to do that. Some of those parts don't share the same set of dimensions as we do. Theoretically, I shouldn't have been able to understand how they went together. I honestly couldn't tell you _how_ I knew, I just _knew._ It was just... obvious." She took a sip of her tepid tea. "Then he told me it was a time machine and asked if I wanted to see how it worked."

Mycroft's lips spread into a grin, "It's a good thing he wasn't a Moriarty. That's the perfect bait for you."

"Hmm, true! Good point. Well, obviously I wasn't going to say no. We figured on a little gallivant and dropping me back shortly after I'd left. You weren't supposed to realise I had even gone anywhere. Obviously, this did not go according to plan."

"I see you haven't lost your gift for understatement, Mummy," Mycroft chuckled. 

"I'm sorry for the pain it's brought to you, but I don't regret my end of it for an instant! Those three and a half years were the best of my life and that's **not** an understatement."

"No," Mycroft said slowly, "You seem happy. I can't remember ever seeing you like this. You look so much like Sherlock right now, it's almost frightful."

"The Demon Child is happy? Inconceivable!" Mycroft pulled his phone out with a little smile, pulled up an image and handed it to her. Her eyebrow shot up and again he wondered whether gestures were inherited; if so, he'd definitely gotten that one from her. "Huh! What's done that, then?"

He took the phone back and thumbed through to another image. "Doctor John Watson, his flatmate. He's been like that ever since he met the man. Note the rather large yellow smiley on the wall."

"Yeahhhhhhhhhhh the Watson fellow," Lani said thoughtfully, "What's his role in all of this?"

"I've no idea. Save that he is Sherlock's flatmate, his assistant and his blogger. Past that, I don't know. I don't believe there is any romantic attachment."

Lani flicked her fingers dismissively, still staring at the image of a plain man in a plain jumper, "That doesn't mean anything. One can have quite a strong Platonic attachment, ask me how I know."

Mycroft decided to take that literally. "How do you know?"

"Hm? Oh. Well, he's a thousand year old alien with two hearts and a time machine and I'm a rather clever monkey," Lani grinned.

"Oh, _bugger_."

"What?"

"After you disappeared, Sherlock bet me twenty pounds that you'd been kidnapped by aliens. Now he's just won the bet, he'll be insufferable for weeks."

"Oh. Well, maybe you can knock him down to ten quid on semantics, since I wasn't kidnapped, I stowed away."

"Ha!"


	6. Deconstructing the Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey look! - Plot!

Lani was looking at the images of her younger son, scratching her thumb over her nose as she often did when she was thinking. "What can you tell me, Number One?" she asked, "What's making the Demon Child happy? What else is different?"

Mycroft spread his hands, "I'm not sure I know, really. He was evicted from his previous flat after a row with the landlord over his lifestyle..."

"Tell me about his lifestyle."

Mycroft dithered uncomfortably, wondering whether to mention Sherlock's addiction to cocaine. Instead he offered, "His existence revolves around his investigations and his research. He doesn't sleep much so he's frequently up at all hours, and as you'll recall, he plays his violin."

"Alright."

"His research often consists of experiments on cadaver portions liberated from the local morgue. The latest mortician is rather sweet on him, I believe, so access has become considerably easier for him to acquire. His new landlady appears to have a much higher tolerance for eccentricity and he seems to be very fond of her, to the point that he's quite protective of her. As for his investigations, a Detective Inspector with NSY has taken to consulting him on difficult cases. They've known each other for about five years and it has certainly led to a considerable increase in correctly closed files."

"Tell me about the landlady."

"Personally I think she's a wittering idiot but he snaps at me if I even hint at such. She reminds me of Mrs. Nesbitt-" Here Lani rolled her eyes at the mention of their old nanny. "But he insists she's more clever than she appears."

"The mortician?"

"A meek young woman with rather low self-esteem. She's quite intelligent however, very knowledgeable and very good at her job. She appeared to be interested in Sherlock for a little while, but as she has had a rather terrible run of luck with men, perhaps we can be thankful that her attempts to engage his interest flew right over his head."

Lani snerked. "And the flatmate?"

"A paradoxical man. A medical captain in Afghanistan, invalided after he was shot. He tries to blend in, tries to be 'normal', but the effort turns him into a wreck of anxiety, with post-traumatic stress symptoms and moderate self-esteem. Put him into a situation and he changes, becomes completely confident and sure, steady as a rock. He seems to have an excellent tolerance for Sherlock; they bicker a lot but then just as easily turn about and start joking around. You can see that by reading the comments on his blog; it's quite obvious that there's a running gag between them about the revolver. He has a highly annoying giggle that Sherlock seems to enjoy provoking whenever and however he can. In turn, he enjoys throwing in with Sherlock in baiting me."

"So in essence, he's now surrounded by people who think he's alright. Anything else?"

"That's it, really," Mycroft shrugged, "Cases, experiments, 221b Baker Street and John Watson."

"Things to engage his special interests, things to apply his talents towards, and people who appreciate him and don't try to force him to be something he can't be, goodness, who would ever think that that could make someone _happy,_ " Lani sighed, "No one can be happy who cannot be true to themselves." Mycroft was silent. "Alright, so what's the current status of the situation? What's Moriarty at right now?"

"Right now, four assassins have just moved into flats along Baker Street. I have ordered additional security around Sherlock and have warned Doctor Watson."

"Four, why four? It only takes one to kill a man?"

"I would assume they wish to cover all angles of the flat, possibly working in shifts. Sherlock does come and go at all hours."

"Four still seems like overkill, no pun intended." Lani tented her fingers and tapped them against her lips, thinking. "How would Moriarty intend to force Sherlock into suicide? What threat could he use?"

Mycroft spread his hands, "I haven't the slightest idea. With most people, threatening their friends and family works, but Sherlock has no friends and he definitely doesn't care about his family. I'm told Moriarty thinks of me as 'The Ice Man', but in truth, that's more Sherlock than me."

"Just like Daddy wanted," Lani whispered, more to herself but it made Mycroft wince. 

"Caring _isn't_ an advantage, Mummy, and it _is_ a tremendous liability."

"It's also a powerful motivator, O Number One Son who holds Queen and Country so dear," Lani retorted, "And if you were listening to yourself a few minutes ago, you'd realise how mistaken you are about Sherlock."

"How so?"

"You just said he's highly protective of his landlady and will snap at you regarding her."

Mycroft shifted and rolled his eyes, uncomfortable, "True."

"And you said he will go to lengths to make his flatmate laugh."

"Also true. Up to and including nicking ashtrays from Buckingham Palace."

"What, seriously? He did that?"

"I have never admitted knowing where that ashtray went."

"Ha ha!! Well, the point being, Number One, nobody does that who doesn't care about the person for whom they're doing it."

"I suppose you're right."

"So that's two accounted for, what about the third and fourth?"

"I would suppose one to be assigned to me."

Lani chewed her knuckles thoughtfully, "No, that's later..."

"What?"

"Hm?" Lani blushed, realising she'd spoken aloud, "Oh uh.. nothing, nevermind... 

Mycroft eyed her cautiously but chose to summarise instead, "So the assassins aren't covering Sherlock, they're covering the people close to him, and we've identified three of the four people most likely to be threatened to force Sherlock to end his life."

Lani steepled her fingers again, frowning, "Four assassins though, something's wrong with that."

"Mummy...?"

"Hm? Yes, love?"

"You have a time machine... Can't you just... go back? Make this not happen?"

"Why do you think I'm _here,_ Number One?" She blew out her breath in a heavy sigh. "It's not that simple, Mycroft. There are events that can be changed and then there are events known as fixed points. Fixed points can't be changed, they'll keep happening no matter what you do to try to alter them. You can alter the circumstances around the event but the event itself will happen no matter what. Now, Sherlock's death is **not** a fixed point, but the problem is that it is completely surrounded by events that **are** fixed points. **All** of the events have event chains leading up to the event itself: Now the problem is, if I change a chain that includes a fixed event, Sherlock will still die. I have to find an event chain that leads directly to him, that **doesn't** include a fixed event." Mycroft shuddered; this made ferretting out terrorist spies sound like child's play. "Which is why I'm _here_ and _now:_ This is in the vicinity of the next most likely event hub where I can find something to intercept."

"And.. how will you find it?"

"By examining all of the information you can give me and seeing if something stands out. And something has."

"The four assassins."


	7. Number One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warnings:** child abuse, ablism, allism, abuse disguised as therapy, "for your own good", "we know better", forced separation, guilt issues
> 
> Mycroft has a long talk with his Mummy about his childhood. Also, plot happens :3

The sun was rising but Mycroft hadn't slept much. There was too much planning to do - and too much catching up to do, as well. After all, it wasn't every day a man got to hear about his dead mother's adventures in time and space. When he finally did bid her good night, she'd hugged him and whispered "Sleep well, sweetling," as she had always done. And he'd felt the ice around his heart crack apart and melt into tears, turning him into a wreck sobbing about how much he'd missed her. 

Which made him wonder, How the heck was he going to break this to Sherlock? And how was Sherlock going to take it?

Sherlock had always been very close to Mummy, much closer than Mycroft had been, and Mummy had understood Sherlock in a way that Mycroft never could. While Mycroft could predict his brother's actions - sometimes - he was unable to explain what was motivating him, which was why he was seldom able to predict when Sherlock would have a 'danger night.' And Sherlock's road to cocaine had started with his mother's death. The use of their childhood nicknames (he had been "sweetling" and "Number One"; Sherlock had been "cub" and "Demon Child" and he had always thought there must be a story behind that) had shattered Mycroft's composure; what would it do to Sherlock?

First things first, though. He'd called in to advise his staff that he wouldn't be in the offices today, then sent off a bunch of instructions. The responses to his requests were starting to trickle in, as his agents began their days. Cook had arrived and was preparing breakfast for himself and his "cousin," as they'd hastily agreed upon. Fact was, when Atalanta Holmes had disappeared, she was only a few years older than Mycroft was now - so now she looked like his sister! It was quite disconcerting, really. But the sudden appearance of a sister would definitely draw attention, whereas previously-unmet cousins were more easily accepted. 

"I have the information about their identities," he announced at last, coming to sit next to Lani. She was at the table with a full English and a cup of sturdy Assam from the Harmutty estate, laced with honey. 

"Let's see it, then," she leaned over to look as he called the images up onto his laptop. She blinked. They both did. "That's... quite a resemblance."

"Isn't it, though," Mycroft said, equally astonished. 

Lani chewed thoughtfully for several minutes - mainly waiting for the cook to go away. Then she pulled out her mobile phone. 

Mycroft blinked at it, how antiquated it looked. _Of course, it's her old Motorola StarTAC._ He could clearly remember the day she got the then-revolutionary clamshell phone. "We'll have to get you a more up-to-date mobile, Mummy," he smiled. 

"Thanks, Number One, but I'll still keep this one. It's got special properties," she grinned. 

"I don't think it will even work in the U.K. now," he said doubtfully.

"Probably not, but that's not where I'm calling." Her call connected and her face lit up, "Hello!! Hi, sweetheart, listen, can you check something out for me? These four assassins set around Sherlock's residence... No, four." She shot Mycroft a quick glance. "You're certain it's three? 'Cause I'm looking at four. Alright, tell me the names." After a few moments, a wide grin split her face, "That's it then. That'll be the one. Thank you, that's a big help. Absolutely, I will. Love to Tyree.. Byebye!" She snapped the phone shut and reached out to tap the odd picture, "That's the odd one out, he doesn't appear anywhere in the TARDIS historical timelines."

"Two questions arise," Mycroft said thoughtfully, "What happened to him? and, Who was he sent to kill? ...What are you looking for?"

"Paper, pencils." 

_Ah yes, Mummy liked to mind-map and draw out her thinking._ He handed her one of his iPads, "I believe you'll find Jot will serve your needs."

"Ah! It'll do. Alright, four assassins and this one's the odd man out. Three people we know the Demon Child cares about: You, the flatmate, and the landlady..." Mycroft snorted. "What?"

"I highly doubt that Sherlock would so much as twitch were I to be threatened by anyone."

"Mycroft, he would be breaking down doors to get to you."

"I doubt it."

"I know the Demon Child."

"It's been fifteen years, Mummy."

"I _still_ know the Demon Child."

Mycroft passed his hand over his hair with a heavy sigh and changed the subject, "Why do you call him 'Demon Child', anyways, Mummy? I've always thought it was a rather cruel nickname, given how much you love him."

"It **is** cruel," Lani agreed, "It's what Mrs. Waterhouse used to call him behind his back, 'that Demon Child spawned of the Ice Queen.'" Mycroft winced at the name of their old cook. "I found him in the tree house having a weep about it, one day. He was more upset about the names she was calling me than about the names she called him. There was no calming him so I turned it around and made it into a joke between us."

"That was certainly an interesting tactic," Mycroft conceded.

"It worked, that's all I cared about."

Mycroft took a sip of his own tea, gazing at the patterns on the tablet while his mind ticked over. "Why 'cub'?"

" _Lone Wolf and Cub_ ," she answered promptly, "Always thought of myself as a lone wolf, y'see, and then I had this little knock-off." She chewed another forkful of breakfast. " _You_ are my Number One Son," she said, smiling, "Be grateful you didn't end up with 'Grasshopper.'" Mycroft smiled but it was empty. "...No?"

"It... seems a little hard to believe that I'm your 'Number One Son' when you believed me to have been 'destroyed,'" he said reluctantly.

" _Ah._ " Lani pushed her plate away and turned her chair, "You have questions.. Well, you're old enough, hopefully stable enough, to hear the answers. Out with them, then; I'll hold back nothing, though the truth will hurt us both."

Mycroft was silent for several minutes, trying to think of what to say, trying to calm the churning in his gut. But all the feelings he'd suppressed, all the memories, all the resentment and the fear and the confusion bubbled up into his throat and came out as, "Why?"

Lani raked her fingers through her hair, nails scraping against her scalp. "You didn't start to talk until you were four. They told me you were... behind, that you needed intervention. Sigurd was all for it, of course, he wasn't pleased about having a flawed child." She sighed heavily, "I was very young when I had you, I was still quite naive, and I had no siblings of my own, I had no idea... It's not an excuse, I know..."

"What was I doing that was so wrong?" Even to himself, Mycroft sounded plaintive and he winced. He winced again, seeing the grief and guilt filling Lani's eyes. 

"You were an exploratory little boy and you didn't talk and they thought you didn't listen, either. You liked to touch things, you put your hands everywhere, and they didn't like that. You talked with your hands and they didn't understand that. You had temper tantrums but so does every child, and once I had you under my care again, it didn't take me long to figure out what was triggering them. But by that time, it was too late - My laughing little boy had become withdrawn and terrified of the word 'quiet.' And then they blamed it all on me."

Mycroft shook his head, "Why?"

"They said I was a 'refrigerator mother,'" she snorted in disgust, "Sure, the one bright spot to come out of the disaster that was my marriage and they decided I was 'too involved' with you so they took you away and gave you to that wittering idiot to raise, then they turned around and called me a 'refrigerator mother' and said I wasn't involved enough!" She shook her head, rubbing her forehead, "I took the pictures to the police but apparently if your child is delayed, duct-taping his hands to a chair and taping his mouth shut isn't child abuse, it's therapy for 'teaching him to sit still and be quiet.'" She brushed tears away with the back of her hand, "Of course, Sigurd thought it was successful. You eventually did start to talk and sit still and he either didn't clue in or didn't care that you were sitting still because you were too frightened to move. Then he sent you off to boarding school and that was that -- bullying, corporal punishment, and Sigurd and that wittering idiot did the rest. Every time I saw you, there was less and less of the little boy who'd run about and get into everything and squealed if anyone mentioned dinosaurs and had an adorable fascination for umbrellas."

"We all have to grow up, Mummy," he murmured. 

"Yes, but we don't all lose ourselves while we do so. I mean, for heaven's sake, Number One, you're so obsessed with keeping up appearances and blending in, _your tie matches the bloody settee!_ " Mycroft glanced down then at the settee in the sitting room and blushed when he realised it was true. "I look around this place, there is nothing here, Mycroft, _nothing!_ The place looks like a magazine photo spread, there is nothing here that indicates that you have any hobbies, any interests, you have no trinkets or collectables, no leisure books or video tapes, no music, there is nothing here that indicates that anybody actually _lives_ here."

"With my job, it would not be prudent to have such personal information lying about to be used against me."

"Translation, you found a job that's fit for someone who's learned to efface himself completely to blend in." Mycroft said nothing and she sighed, "Which is... good. Don't think I'm not proud of you, Mycroft, because I am. You've done well for yourself and as you say, you've turned it into an asset."

"But you see me as damaged."

"All you need is a bowler and an assistant in a catsuit and anyone would mistake you for John Steed." Mycroft started to smile. "Oh, stop it."

"You would be very pretty in a catsuit, Mummy."

"Yes alright."

"Mrs. Peel **was** a genius and very difficult to take down."

"Enough, Number One," Lani grinned. 

They laughed for a moment then Mycroft turned serious again. "I knew a lot of this already. I... used to eavesdrop when the grownups were talking." Lani nodded, unsurprised. "I guess I needed to hear your side of it."

She scraped her nails through her hair again and blew out another sigh. "I couldn't protect you properly. Too naive. And I know it didn't help for you to see Sherlock getting away with behaviour that had gotten you punished, I realise that now. I couldn't protect you and I over-protected Sherlock." She shook her head, "..maybe they _were_ right about me..."

" **NO!** " Mycroft shook his head violently, "No, no, no, Mummy, no! No, they were **not** right about you!" Impulsively he took her hands and flung himself to his knees, staring up at her imploringly, "Mummy, no, we did everything to be with you, we **wanted** to be with you because you were so much more interesting. Sherlock and I, we wouldn't **be** what we are today if not for you. You taught us how to think and use our gifts and you taught us how to experiment and to explore our world and we certainly didn't learn that from Mrs. Nesbitt. Daddy taught us how to lie well and how to manipulate people but you taught us how to cut through to the truth. If that isn't what a good mother is supposed to do, then I'll stand before anyone who says so and black their eye!" He reached up and hugged her tightly, then whispered in her ear,  "...and I still really like umbrellas."

She pulled back and grinned at him, "Really?" 

He nodded and she wiped her eyes, then he leaned forward to kiss her cheek and hugged her again. "Shall we get back to work?"

She nodded. "We're missing something, I'm sure of it. Cases, experiments, 221b Baker Street and Dr. John Watson..." She drew them out on the iPad and frowned. "Cases and experiments - maybe we should look a little deeper at those?"

Mycroft nodded and pecked off a message on his phone. "I've requested information about Detective Inspector Lestrade and Miss Hooper. It'll take a few minutes to arrive."

Lani nodded and started drawing balloons around each name and title, adding features around each balloon. Then she started drawing lines between them, looking for patterns.

Mycroft's phone chimed. "A highly respected fellow, our Detective Inspector," he commented, reading, "Bit of a James Dean in his teens, it seems -- involved himself in punk rock, resistant to authority, got himself into trouble more than a few times. Bit of a surprise that someone like that should end up in law enformcement." It said something about Mycroft that he completely failed to notice any irony in what he was saying. "Recently separated from his wife, divorce procedings are underway."

"Doesn't sound terribly remarkable," Lani commented as she put notes around Lestrade's bubble and attached it to the bubble labelled "Cases." 

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed. His phone chimed again. "Ah, the information on Miss Molly Hooper," he smiled, "Thirty-one years old, has a cat named Toby, a consistent yet unremarkable work record, bullied in school, did exceptionally well in university, often out-pacing her courses, enjoys knitting and _Glee_ , prefers the Internet for social contact and enjoys meeting Internet friends, has had poor luck in intimate relationships, generally attracts the emotionally abusive type of men who see her as someone easily manipulated and controlled..." He stopped abruptly and his eyebrow shot up.

Lani grinned, "Sounding familiar?"

"No, it's... Well, **yes** , although I don't see you as watching _Glee,_ but that's not what caught my attention... It appears she dated Jim Moriarty."

_"What?!"_

"It appears to have been a plot on his part to get close to Sherlock, but she terminated the relationship."

"Oh, _really._ " Lani wrote all of that down, then abruptly put the pad down, "We're thinking about people being threatened to force Sherlock to kill himself... We haven't considered, How has _Sherlock_ reacted to the threat? Does he know about it?"

"Yes, and he's said he has a plan, although he hasn't--*" Mycroft stared at the bubbles and lines and suddenly, like faces becoming a vase, it all became clear. "He'll see his friends under target to force him to kill himself... so the most reasonable thing to do would be to try to fake his death and for that he'll need..."

"A mortician," they chorused.


	8. Demon Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lani discuss some skeletons in the family closet. Then, plot happens!

"So the fourth assassin is for the mortician," Lani was saying over her steepled fingers, "And Moriarty will have to take her out first, **before** he can go through with the rest of the plan."

"Sherlock will need to contact me at some point. I can furnish him with everything else he will need to play dead and establish a covert identity," Mycroft said, "But he'll need a mortician to sign off on the declaration. It's the most likely scenario." He spent the next few minutes pecking out messages on his phone. Finally he sat back with a self-satisfied smile, "I have requested my people to deal with the matter of the assassin."

Lani sat back with a relieved sigh, "Let's just hope this works."

"My people are very competant."

"It's not them I'm worried about."

"What do you mean, Mummy?"

"We're dealing with a whole lot of fixed points in Time, Number One," she explained, "If any of the event chains leading up to Sherlock's death contains a fixed point, his death will still happen. I'm worried about choosing the wrong one."

"I see. So we should not rest on our laurels, but should continue to investigate other possibilities."

"Considering we nearly dismissed the mortician, I quite agree. The Inspector may seem unremarkable but he may have a significance to the Demon Child of which we're unaware."

"Yes," Mycroft said as he reread the information, "I can see where they would have found some common ground, if he'd been young and in trouble a few times himself."

"Hm? What do you mean?" Mycroft looked up and blushed, abruptly remembering who he was talking to. "Something happened?" He cast about for some way to respond and the longer he dithered, the higher Lani's eyebrow lifted, " _Mycroft?_ "

"Sherlock... did not take your... disappearance... at all well," he said finally, "He...." He passed his hands over his head and blew out a sigh, only registering a few moments later that he'd inherited another gesture, "He began using cocaine after you died."

"I see. Still on it?"

"I am assured he is not."

"By whom?"

"Doctor Watson."

"Alright then."

Mycroft shook his head and frowned, "You don't seem upset by this news."

"Is it in the past?"

"Yes."

"Is he off it?"

"I just told you he was."

"Is he likely to stay off it?"

"As long as he has Doctor Watson, I believe so, yes."

"Then I don't see the point in being upset about something that's over and in the past, and I shall continue to be proud of him for overcoming it in the present. And in the future, he shall be dead and beyond the reach of any drug if we can't solve this."

"......" said Mycroft.

"Society parties make it very easy, Mycroft," Lani said softly, "In addition to the liquor and the tobacco, there's always an assortment of other 'recreational enhancements.' When your mind is filled with too much noise and too many ideas and too many dark voices telling you how you cocked this up and messed that up and can never do anything right, it can make you desperate for something to switch off the pain and make it all go quiet. And when you are alone and cast out and can never please anybody no matter how hard you try, it can make you very vulnerable to people who can offer a cure for both conditions. I had my own problems, Mycroft. To be honest, I'm a little surprised that you didn't."

"I did," Mycroft admitted, just as softly, "That's why I was so worried when Sherlock started down a similar path. I still have...substitutions," he glanced guiltily at the refrigerator.

Lani nodded, "Yep, same. Substituted the Internet."

"I remember," Mycroft nodded, "And Sherlock's substituted cases."

"Constructive, at least."

"And there is the significance of the inspector," Mycroft realised, "He is essentially Sherlock's dealer, supplying him with the cases that form his substitute addiction, not to mention his career."

Lani nodded, "Plus understanding. If he had a similar experience, it'd give them some common ground."

"I don't know why I didn't quite realise that before," he sighed, "I can't understand him without you to explain."

"How is your relationship with him now?"

"Not good," Mycroft admitted, "But then, it never was. We have little contact with each other. I keep watch over him from a distance and he hacks my calendar whenever he can, but for the most part, we try to stay out of each other's way."

Lani snerked, "Still arguing?"

"Of course."

"Still competing?"

"He still considers me to be his 'arch-enemy,'" Mycroft sighed and shook his head, "I keep hoping that he'll realise one day that we are actually on the same side."

A sharp bark of incredulous laughter greeted that and Mycroft blinked. "You're kidding! You think you're on the same side?"

"Of course we are, Mummy! We are both in the business of ensuring order and peace. We are both in the business of stopping the miscreants from disrupting that peace. Sherlock usually operates on a local scale while I operate at an international level, but at its essence, we do the same job."

Lani was shaking her head, "I can see your point, Number One, but I can assure you, that's not how he'd see it. He'd see it as you're in direct opposition."

"How so?"

"Mycroft... You are in the business of creating lies and cover-ups; Sherlock is in the business of exposing them." He blinked. "I have to wonder, how many times has he investigated something, all the while dreading that it'll trace back to you?"

Mycroft chewed that over in silence. A few minutes later, his phone chimed. "Holmes..." His face went absolutely still, "Tell me I misheard you and you did not actually say 'He's already left.'" Lani froze with her teacup halfway to her mouth. "Get to St. Barts immediately! Take the helicopter if you have to. That man must be stopped by any means necessary, you have full authorisation."

Lani came back, still tucking her shirt into her trousers, "If he shows up while she's still at work..."

"I'm having my car brought around now," Mycroft replied, tapping his phone. Lani danced from foot to foot in agitation and practically shot out the door when the long black car arrived. Mycroft followed at a more sedate pace, though his sense of urgency was no less. "I can get access into the hospital without difficulty," he said as they rode. Lani was jiggling her knee in agitation. "But distracting Miss Hooper may be more difficult. I am reliably informed that she rarely leaves her lab."

"Hmm. Maybe I can pretend to be lost or something," Lani stared out at the slow-moving traffic. 

"Yes, what _is_ the hold-up?" Mycroft frowned at his phone, then looked at his driver, "Can you find another route?"

"The news is reporting a fatality incident, sir. Traffic is being diverted but it will take a while."

Mycroft made a face, then his phone chimed. He stared at it, "...He's almost there." He started pecking off messages, mind racing, "Even with the helicopter we won't get there in time. I've diverted some of my people but with this traffic..."

**_"Noooooooooo....!!"_** He looked up at Lani's anguished wail, to see her frantically digging for her old Motorola phone.  "C'mon c'mon c'mon," she muttered as she waited for it to connect. Relief flooded her face, "Hi it's me! We're stuck! We've found an opportunity but the assassin is nearly there and we're stuck in traffic, we'll never get there in time! Can you help us? ...Yes, I'll hold." Mycroft looked incredulous as she looked around the street through the window. 

Then he saw it - a faint light, flashing in mid-air. Lani kicked the car door open, "Come on, Number One!" She vaulted over another car's bonnet, ignoring the yells of its driver, and pelted down the sidewalk. Mycroft did his best to keep up, hearing the mental voice of his little brother making snide comments about his diet. The thing was growing more solid now, kicking up an almighty wind and how was it nobody noticed that? The sound was horrendous, the asthmatic wheezes and groans punctuated by solid thuds as the thing materialized fully. Lani didn't even hesitate but burst through the door and Mycroft hesitated only a moment before following...

He stared around at the cathedral-like room, its walls pocketed like honeycomb, with something like a console or control centre in the middle. The door closed behind him and a pillar in the middle of the console began to rise and fall with the ungodly noise as the machine wheezed into flight. There was a woman gazing at him curiously, there was Lani beaming like the sun, and there was a man, slowly tipping his head to look at him with an enigmatic smile. 

"Mycroft Holmes," he said, "Welcome aboard the TARDIS. I'm the Doctor."


	9. Four Black Swans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lani are down to the wire in a race against time -- fortunately, Time is on their side.

When one reaches the levels of homeland security that Mycroft Holmes had attained, one starts to hear the whispers. Rumours about... _other_ security organisations, operating independently of the government. Organisations such as the Unified Intelligence Taskforce, operating under the auspices of the United Nations, yet their intelligence operations didn't seem to enter the arenas of terrorism and trafficking - so what was their intelligence _for?_ Closer to home, the shadowy entity called Torchwood, established by Queen Victoria herself for the protection of the realm but the records were silent on _why._ He wasn't _supposed_ to know about either entity, nor was he supposed to know about the mysterious figure that appeared now and then in the records of both. A figure known by no name, only by a title. A figure standing before him, smiling enigmatically. 

The Doctor. 

_"He's a thousand years old, has two hearts and a time machine, and I'm a rather clever monkey," Lani had said._ Mycroft realised he was staring and offered his hand, "Very pleased to make your acquaintence, Doctor... who?"

"Just The Doctor," the man smiled. It was like shaking hands with a corpse. Worse - corpses are at least room temperature, and this man, this _alien_ felt colder than that. Mycroft glanced at Lani, who was beaming. 

"And this is Tyree," she said, looping her arm around the other woman and giving her a snug, "She's my best friend!"

"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Tyree," Mycroft said formally. 

Tyree blushed and giggled, "Um, same." And blushed again when she realised she sounded like a fan girl. 

He glanced at Lani again, "Mummy, we're really pressed for time on this...." He trailed off and pinched the bridge of his nose, "No, I suppose we're not now, are we."

"Time machine!" Lani grinned, "Albeit a dodgey one."

"Oy!"

"BUT we're working on that," Lani teased, patting the console in front of her. Then she looked up at the other man, "We do need some help though, Doctor. Even if we get to St. Barts Hospital in time, Miss Hooper would still be caught in the cross-fire. We need to get her out of her lab somehow."

The Doctor immediately twirled to another section of the console. "Miss Hooper, Miss Molly Hooper," he chanted, smiling as he pushed buttons and stroked touchscreens, "Mortuary lab assistant, cat lover, video game player, backgammon cutthroat, knitter, pattern designer, Internet socialite, and close personal friend of Sherlock Holmes." He paused and looked sly, "Don't you knit too, Lani?"

She was immediately alert, "Yes, I do. Hang on, Mycroft, didn't you say she liked meeting Internet friends? Are there any websites for knitters? Forums? That sort of thing?"

"She's been a member of Ravelry since late 2007," the Doctor grinned at Lani. The TARDIS groaned and ground to a halt and the Doctor punched some more buttons, "It's invitation-only then, but let's have a crack at it, shall we?" A few minutes later he pulled out a keyboard and handed it to Lani, "All yours."

"I'm sorry.. What's happening?" Mycroft asked. 

"We're in 2007," the Doctor explained, "Lani is creating an account on Ravelry so that she can form an Internet friendship with Miss Hooper. Then we'll hop forward in time to create a progression."

"And then she can arrange to meet with her for lunch or something similar, I see now," Mycroft nodded. 

"Be right back, I need to raid the Wardrobe," Lani turned and vanished through the far doors into the TARDIS interior. When she returned, she was carrying an incredibly long, multi-coloured scarf, "Hey, would you mind if I posted a picture of this, just for the site? This is spectacular, by the by."

The Doctor smiled at the scarf with fond remembrance, "Not at all. It was originally made for me by Madame Nostradamus, quite a witty little knitter, you'd like her. Very clever lady, history is unfairly silent on all she achieved."

"Isn't it always," Lani sneered, fingers clattering over the keys. The TARDIS groaned on, landing and launching as it crept forwards through time. Finally Lani grinned and pulled out her mobile. "Molly Hooper, please... Yes I'll hold. Hi, is this Molly? Hiiiiii, it's Lani Sherrinford! Listen, I'm in town for a few hours on a stop-over, do you want to get together for tea? Awwwww are you sure you can't? I'm only in for a few hours and I'd _love_ to talk to you about that gorgeous chenille cap pattern you created. Really? Yay! Alright, how does 1:30 sound? Great! See you then." She snapped the phone shut and looked up, "I need chenille yarn and a circular needle, STAT!"

Mycroft grinned, " _'Sherrinford'_ , Mummy?"

Lani shrugged, "It was the first thing that jumped to mind. I sure as heck wasn't going back to Delacroix and Holmes is a bit obvious, don't you think?" She noticed Tyree's expression. "What?"

"...You know... all this time I've known you... I don't think you ever told me your full name."

"I didn't? Oh. Well... to be honest, I didn't really want to remember."

* * * * 

_Well. That was a strange day,_ thought Molly Hooper as she washed her hands. There was the surprise visit from her net friend on Ravelry; they'd had a lovely lunch together and talked and had a wonderful time. There was coming back to the lab to find a strange woman standing over the corpse of a tall, thin man with black curly hair who looked so much like someone she knew that it gave Molly a fright. _"Just tag this one, please,"_ the woman had said, never looking up from her Blackberry, _"It's already processed and the paperwork is done. Oh, and you needn't mention it to anyone. Just tag and stow it away, please, as a favour to a friend."_ Then the woman looked up and fixed Molly with such a piercing look that she could only murmur a faint "...okay..."

So she'd processed the body and put it into storage. Then she'd cleaned up and gone to the ladies' room to wash her hands. 

When she returned to the darkened lab, a voice said, "You're wrong, you know," startling the life out of her. She turned and saw her friend. "You do count," Sherlock said softly, "You've always counted and I've always trusted you. And you were right," he turned and looked at her, "I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong?" she stammered. 

He rose and looked at her with an expression she'd never seen before. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

"What do you need?" she whispered, and held her ground as he stepped closer. 

"You," he said. Then he told her his plan and she realised she had everything they'd need. Soon, she was too busy to wonder about the coincidence of having a body appear in the morgue that looked just like Sherlock Holmes, right when they needed one.

* * * * 

_"It's done," Mycroft had reported, looking at his phone, "And Miss Hooper has returned safely." Then the Doctor had put the TARDIS into flight again, pushing her forward one more time._

Now they stood at the doors and they waited. _This is it. This is where we find out if we picked the right event. This is where we find out if we cocked it up._ \-- Neither Mycroft nor Lani would ever know that they were thinking exactly the same thought, at exactly the same time. Lani couldn't stop shaking and even Mycroft was rocking from foot to foot in his anxiety, his eyes never leaving the silhouette of his brother on the hospital roof. 

The Doctor caught Lani's gaze and held it for a moment. She bit her thumb and felt Mycroft's arm slide around her shoulders, then clutch her as Sherlock leaped in a perfect swan dive and the agonised scream of Doctor Watson forced their tears to spill. She turned and buried her face in Mycroft's chest, felt him wrap his arms around her, whispering a litany of "I'm sorry, Mummy, I'm so sorry", over and over.

There was a touch at her elbow. "Lani?" the Doctor said softly, "Would you like to see what you've done?" She wiped her eyes and nodded, following him into the TARDIS. The display showed the death of Sherlock Holmes, dated 2012... then it shivered and changed. Lani sagged with relief, her body momentarily blocking the view of the display. 

Not before Mycroft caught a glimpse of his own death date, a mere week after his brother's. It shivered and changed, and a headline followed the new date. Realisation dawned as a cold pit in his stomach. _Mummy didn't come back just to save Sherlock. She came back to save **me,** as well._


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping up.

"You're looking better," Mycroft said, gathering up the papers, "For a given value of 'better.'" Sherlock grunted but said nothing. Mycroft hadn't expected him to; Sherlock hadn't said much of anything since that dreadful day on the roof of St. Barts. His depression was deep and getting worse. "Interpol was very cooperative. You will be attached as one of their agents, Linus Sigerson." Another grunt as Sherlock took the offered documents, identification and passports. "And your new phone," Mycroft continued, "Speed dial 3 will reach our cousin, Dr. Lani Sherrinford, with the Unified Intelligence Taskforce. Their Chief Scientific Advisor appointed her as his deputy."

Sherlock twitched an eyebrow suspiciously. "We don't have a cousin named Lani Sherrinford."

"We do now," Mycroft said pleasantly, "She will provide you with any assistance she can, which is quite a lot. I advise you to contact her as soon as possible. Right now would be a good time. Try video messaging."

Sherlock looked at the phone then narrowed his eyes at Mycroft, "You're acting very strange."

"Oh, and here is the twenty quid I owe you, although technically I only owe you ten, because she wasn't kidnapped by aliens," he couldn't hide his smile any longer as Sherlock's glare turned baffled, then into incredulous disbelief, "She stowed away."

* * * *

_The TARDIS groaned and heaved onwards, on her flight through the vortex of time and space. Tyree turned to the Doctor and finally gasped out, "That was **Mycroft Holmes!** "_

_"That's right," the Doctor smiled._

_"That was **him!** The Shadow King of Britain! The inventor of Holmesian economics, the system that replaced the old money-based capitalist system, and laid the foundation for...!"_

_"Yes, that's right. The man who saved the European Union from economic collapse in the early 21st Century and whose later work in both economics and security made corporate abuse so much more difficult."_

_"And.. Sherlock Holmes..."_

_"The greatest detective who ever lived on Earth," the Doctor agreed, "His equal won't be born for another three thousand years, and will be born on Lystor III. Sherlock Holmes' forensic research and investigative techniques will change the face of law enforcement. Not to mention his later work in apiology will save the honey bees from extinction. The work of his partner, Doctor John Watson, will pave the way for great advances in trauma medicine, and his work with Molly Hooper will make her the Marie Curie of mortuary. Brilliant people, every one of them."_

_"But.... how could I have known that if..."_

_The Doctor smiled, "It's a loop in Time, Tyree. Time doesn't just go backwards and forwards; it swirls about and forms eddies and gyres and standing waves and loops that curl back on themselves before they resume their forward motion, like the _Star Trek_ reboot. ...Actually it isn't remotely like the _Star Trek_ reboot, but it's a useful lie. There was a risk but I knew Lani would succeed. I knew because of you."_

_"Lani," Tyree breathed, "All this time... All this time, I've been travelling with **Atalanta Holmes!** The inventor of the Golden Apple gravity drive!"_

_The Doctor nodded, "She will be, and when she does, she'll give humanity the stars. That's why Lani had to leave the TARDIS, Mycroft too. Atalanta, Mycroft and Sherlock, Doctor Watson, Molly Hooper... All of them, in their own way, contributed to the path that would eventually lead to your society, Tyree -- to the formation of the First Great and Bountiful Human Empire."_


	11. Epilogue 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by request of TARDISIsTheOnlyWayToTravel

Sherlock hadn’t said anything for the entire journey. Mycroft hadn’t expected him to. Between Moriarty and _this_ , what could be said? So he started slightly when Sherlock, without turning, suddenly asked, “Why Kirkwall?”

“It’s where she’s chosen to live,” Mycroft said simply, “She likes it here.”

Sherlock said nothing more. The small plane lurched with the wind as it struggled to land but neither of its passengers felt any fear. Mycroft had full confidence in his pilots and Sherlock was too numb to care. Finally the plane bumped down and rolled to a stop. Mycroft pulled his phone out and dialed. “Please inform Doctor Sherrinford that Mycroft Holmes has arrived,” he said into it. He quit the call and looked at Sherlock, “She will meet us at her house.” There was no answer, nor did he expect one, but he let his little brother go first as they climbed into the waiting car.

The house was a cottage on the outskirts of town, overlooking the sea. Mycroft had his key ready so they would not have to wait long in the raging storm. He slammed the door behind them both, leaving the wind to howl and the waves to crash outside. They hung up their coats, then he flashed his little brother a quick grin and went to make tea. Sherlock found a chair in the sitting room to curl up on, hugging his knees to his chest and gazing at nothing with empty eyes.

Mycroft brought the tea out and lit a fire in the grate. He poured a cup for Sherlock that he didn’t expect would be touched then took a seat nearby and occupied himself by looking around at the room. Sherlock hadn’t so much as glanced at it.

The door slammed open and the wind howled through, making the flames leap yellow. “We’re in the sitting room,” Mycroft called, “There’s tea.” The answering voice was indistinct but Sherlock froze.

She swept in, pushing her damp hair out of her almond-shaped eyes, away from the sharp cheekbones she shared with her sons. Sherlock stared at her as she accepted a cup of tea and flopped onto her sofa, flipping her feet up beneath her. “Right,” she said briskly, “Let’s get this over with. Hello, Demon Child, you have questions.”

_You’re damned right I have questions,_ Sherlock wanted to say, _Where have you been? Why did you leave? What did we do wrong?_ But the words died in his throat and all he could do was stare at her until his breath hitched into sobs and he lost control of the tears.

Lani set her teacup down and reached out to pull him into her embrace. “I know, cub, I know,” she whispered, rocking him, “We’re going to fix this.”

“Mummy, I’ve lost everything.”

“I know, cub. We’re going to fix this and we’re going to make sure that you can get him back again.”


End file.
